The Iron Earl

by K. J. Jackson

  “Why?”

  “I have always been terribly shy. The one thing my mother used to tell me before she died was that I needed to find my voice—the voice I have in the heart of my soul. It made sense to her—she was an adult. But to me, it never did.”

  “And now?” His fingers entwined in her hair, curling a lock between his fore and middle finger.

  “I think I’m finding it. What she wanted for me. She wanted me to escape my stepfather. She knew what was ahead for me with him. And the only way I could escape was to find my voice.” She shifted her face upward, seeking out his eyes as a smile danced about her lips. “And to find someone who would listen to it.”

  “You were rather convincing in the gardens at Wolfbridge.”

  “I needed to be. And for once, I was right with my gamble.”

  “I was a gamble?”

  “Or a last hope.” Her head bowed, her lips going to his chest to kiss his skin. “Thank you for listening to me.”

  “I am beginning to see the merits in bringing home extra luggage.”

  She laughed, nipping at his skin with the tips of her teeth, and then she settled her fist onto his chest to support her chin as she looked at him. “Why did you lock me away in this room today?”

  He glanced to the door, his eyebrows drawing together. “I didn’t lock you in here.”

  “No, but you requested I leave the room for nothing or no one. And this is odd—for a husband and wife to share a chamber. Is this the custom in Scotland?”

  Lachlan stifled a sigh, his finger lifting to sweep an errant strand of hair across her brow. His fingertip grazed the edge of the scar on her temple and—small miracle—she didn’t flinch away. Progress.

  Progress he wasn’t about to lose by telling her that their sleeping arrangements were a silent command for the staff and all the inhabitants in Vinehill—she was his wife, and he would tolerate no disrespect from them. She’d get enough hostility from his grandfather.

  “It is common and uncommon. It depends on the marriage, I suppose.” His fingers in her hair stilled. “And did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Leave the room?”

  The edges of her lips pulled back in a grimace. “I met your grandfather.”

  He jerked upright, sending her rolling off his chest. “Hell and damnation—how—what?”

  She flopped onto her back, propping herself up by her elbows. “The marquess sent a maid to retrieve me. I tried to resist the request, but she said it wasn’t a request. It was an order. I thought it best to comply or be tossed out on my ear.”

  “Damn the buzzard.” His fist slammed into the bed, his head shaking as he stared at the fire. “I wanted to be the one to introduce you, but there wasn’t time before the trial started.” He looked to her. “What did he say to you?”

  “He knows.”

  “Knows you’re my wife?”

  “Knows I’m English.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s having a divorce petition drawn up.”

  His look narrowed at her. “He is?”

  She nodded.

  “Ornery ass.” He chuckled, his head shaking at the foolery of his grandfather. Leave it to the man to try and snake a way out of a marriage for him. Be damned whether Lachlan wanted it or not.

  Evalyn sat up, moving away from him on the bed.

  “Wait. Why are you looking like you were just sentenced to an execution, Eva?”

  She reached for her shift at the foot of the bed, her fingers pulling it inside out to right it. “I didn’t realize it was what you wanted.”

  From behind her he reached out to grab her wrist, stilling her movements. “I didn’t say a thing about wanting a divorce.” He settled his chin on her shoulder, his lips next to her ear. “I laughed because it is exactly my grandfather’s way, his way until his last breath is out of him. The old coot loves to have papers drawn up to shove in front of me—I swear he spends half his time concocting ways he’s going to control me from the grave.”

  Her hand clutching her shift fell to her lap. “So you don’t want a divorce?”

  He pulled her arm up to his face, his lips brushing across the fleshy mound on the inside of her wrist. “The thought never occurred to me. It is the last thing I want in this moment.”

  “What do you want in this moment?”

  He dropped her wrist, lifting his head from her shoulder. “First, I want to measure your foot.”

  “My foot?”

  “Aye.” He started to move around her on the bed but stilled when he saw her back in the light of the fire. His fingers rose, tracing a long ragged white scar that ran along the backside of her ribcage. Two smaller lines of scar tissue crossed the main line near the top. He’d seen enough scars to know a blade had cut her skin.

  Bile stained his tongue. “Hell, Eva, what’s this scar from?”

  She stilled, her back tensing, going impossibly straight.

  “Evalyn?”

  Her head tilted to the side, but she didn’t look back to him. “It’s from the time I asked my stepfather who my real father was.”

  He rounded her on the bed so he could see her face. Her cheeks had gone ashen. “You don’t know who your father was?”

  “No.” She met his look. “My mother never told me, at least not that I can remember. From the whispers of the servants, I gathered it was forbidden to talk about him.”

  “So you asked?”

  Her lips pulled back in a tight line, almost as though she was going to refuse to talk. She swallowed hard, her gaze averting from him and landing on the fire. “I did. Once. I asked my stepfather what my father’s name was, and he didn’t explode, didn’t yell. Not like I was bracing myself for. He just silently went to the fireplace where a row of daggers hung over the mantel, took one down and then dipped the end of it in the fire.

  She paused, her eyes closing for a long moment. “I thought he was contemplating because he was so calm—trying to figure out how much he was going to tell me. Instead, he turned around, paced behind me for a moment, then flattened me to the table—his arm across my shoulders holding me captive and he swiped that into my skin.” Her hand lifted to point down over her shoulder. “His initial. He carved his initial into my skin—telling me there was only one name I ever needed know.”

  “A bloody ‘F.’” Rage like he never knew swirled in his gut. His eyes flew across her back, each white scar he found singeing into his mind. His finger jabbed at the left side of her back. “And this one?”

  She spun on the bed, grabbing his hand out of the air. “Lachlan, if we had to go through the story of every single scar on my body, you would burst into a flaming ball of fury.”

  “I would burst into a flaming ball of hatred.”

  Her head shook, her fingers tightening on his wrist. “We can’t do that. They’re not worth it. They’re not worth the memories.”

  “They are a part of you, Eva, and I need to know all of you. Everything that made you.”

  “Lachlan—”

  “Not all at once, then.” He attempted to lessen the angry rumble in his voice. “We go through them, one by one. Every time I have your body naked, I get one story.”

  “And then we never speak of them again?”

  He nodded. “Deal?”

  She sighed, her lips pulling to the side in a decided frown. “Deal.”

  He leaned forward, capturing her frown under his mouth, kissing her until it softened, pliable to him. The stiffness of her body eased and she leaned into him.

  Not quite yet.

  He pulled away. “Wait. Onto your foot before you drive me to all distraction.”

  He turned from her and scooted along the bed to her feet. Picking up her heel, he held the length of his hand to the sole of her bare foot. The raw skin of blisters and the scabs were healing faster than he thought they could. Though he’d made sure she’d pointedly stayed off her feet as much as possible in the last days.

  His fingers stretched o
ver the tips of her toes and he nodded to himself. “I still need to find you proper fitting boots. My sister or mother’s may match your size.” His fingers left her foot and he snatched her hand, pulling it to his lips and trailing a lascivious circle with his tongue on the inside of her wrist.

  A flash of raw desire cut across her gold-green eyes. “And next?”

  “Next I want you to toss that shift far, far from the bed and let my hands wander all over your naked body. Give me a respite—make me forget about the blasted trial and my blasted grandfather and your blasted stepfather for just a few minutes.”

  A smile, so wantonly shy it made his heart thunder, crossed her lips and she moved to her knees, her eyes pinning him. “That, I can attempt to do—on one condition.”

  “What?”

  “That you let me accompany you to the trial tomorrow.”

  “You don’t want that, Eva.” He shook his head. “You don’t want to have to hear the horror of what happened. I don’t want you to have to hear it.”

  “If I’m there, then I won’t have to attempt to drag what happened out of you. I’ll already know—know why you’re angry. Please, Lachlan. It will help me to understand.”

  She grabbed his free hand and wrapped her fingers around the back of it, bringing it to her breast, cupping it. “This is yours to do with anything you’d like—just let me come with you.”

  Her nipple hardened under his palm and he groaned. “Not fair, you little minx.”

  Her wanton smile grew into unabashed indecency. She shrugged.

  “Fine. Yes, you can come.” He grabbed her around the waist, dragging her naked skin onto his. “But I expect to be rewarded.”

  Her smile went wider, the tip of her tongue licking her lips. “You will be.”

  { Chapter 15 }

  He was livid.

  Livid to the point he was shaking. His foot bouncing up and down—energy with no place to escape.

  She could hardly sit next to her husband without her own skin prickling, innate shots of panic skittering across her muscles.

  He is not my stepfather.

  Evalyn repeated the mantra in her mind for the thousandth time that week. Lachlan was not her stepfather. His anger would not find a target on her. He wouldn’t let it.

  How very much she wanted to believe that.

  Aside from those few seconds when he’d first entered his bedchamber the previous night, he’d given her no reason to doubt him. To doubt his control—for once he heard her, listened to her voice, the curbing of his anger had been infallible.

  Yet the raging whirlwind of angst swirling in the air about him on the bench next to her was almost too much to bear.

  She glanced to her right. They sat in the second row of benches in the courtroom, the row in front of them effectively trapping her. Lachlan to her left. The high back of the bench in front. To her right she would have to push past one man at the end of the row to reach a door she assumed led out of the courthouse.

  But no.

  She couldn’t do that to Lachlan. She couldn’t abandon him to witness the atrocity of this trial by himself.

  He is not my stepfather.

  Her eyes swung forward and she concentrated on the young ruffian stepping away from the witness table. His brown hair had been combed over and slicked down with thick pomade to lend an air of respectability, but the holes in his coat belied how desperate the lad was.

  Paid to take the stand, or so his mostly incoherent, rambling testimony gave evidence to.

  But another one testifying to the fact that Mr. Lipinstein was a smuggler. Not a murderer.

  A title her husband would soon have to add to his name if the fury consuming him didn’t abate.

  Whispered murmurs pitched to a rumbled commotion in the courtroom as the lad stepped to the back of the building and the main white-wigged judge addressed the crowd, asking for quiet. His voice was drowned out by the catcalls and whistles as he announced the next witness.

  Lachlan shifted, his bouncing foot tapping harder on the floorboards, making the wood vibrate under her toes. His knuckles were clasped so tightly together, they had gone beyond white, the tip of each knuckle pulsating red.

  She didn’t need to glance at Lachlan’s face to know he was ready to explode.

  Her gut flipped, hardening into a rock as the urgency to escape shot through her limbs.

  Now. She needed to excuse herself now.

  Instinct told her to run. Run before the explosion. Run before misplaced anger found her as the target. Her legs clenched, ready to gain her feet and move to the right toward the door when her left hand did the oddest thing.

  It wandered away from her body with a mind of its own.

  Wandered away and set itself on Lachlan’s arm, sliding down to wedge itself between his clenched hands.

  It wiggled, forcing the brutal clamp he held onto apart, until her fingers could entwine with his. The blood pumping in his veins pulsated, angry against her hand.

  Shocked at her own actions, she stared at their tangled hands. Her white kidskin-gloved fingers stark against his skin.

  She stared until his right arm twitched and he brought their clasped hands closer to his torso, holding the back of her hand to his belly.

  Evalyn braved a glance up at Lachlan’s face. The fury that etched such deep lines into his forehead relaxed ever so slightly. Through his fingers, she could feel his frantic heartbeat slowing—just a touch—enough.

  He looked down at her, the blue streaks in his hazel eyes glowing bright. At her, he wasn’t angry.

  Her head cocked to the side. Gratitude? Was that what she saw in his eyes?

  He held her look for a moment that stretched into infinity. He was losing himself in her again. Losing his anger.

  Astonishing.

  Her hand against his and he could calm—which calmed her.

  His stare only broke when the crowd around them erupted in jeers and they both looked forward.

  The next witness was making his way to the front of the court. A short man, slightly rotund, with a thick mop of dull brown hair dipped forward, bowing before the row of judges. He turned to the side.

  Heaven to hell.

  Mr. Molson.

  Her breath stopped, her heart freezing in place.

  No. Not here. Not in the room with her.

  She ducked her head to the right, hiding behind the man sitting in front of her. She edged one eye to the left, searching Mr. Molson’s profile, unable to believe it was him.

  What in the hell was he doing here? Doing here as a witness?

  She saw the man wrong. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t.

  She leaned slightly to her left, her eyes frantic. Hawk nose that curled down into a point. Eyebrows that were as bushy as his hair, running in one long line across his forehead. Thin lips that always snaked over the crudest words when he cornered her.

  There was no mistaking him.

  “Mr. Molson, you are the person in direct charge of the men that were evicting the Wilson family, is that correct?” the head judge asked.

  “It is.” Mr. Molson looked out to the throngs of people in the assembly room, a sneer on his face.

  Evalyn jerked, ducking her head down, shrinking, hiding the best she could manage in the second row. Blast it. Why had they sat so close? She should have insisted on the back of the room. She should have never come to the trial. What had she been thinking?

  Her husband glanced down at her, his eyebrow cocking at her jerky movements.

  Words. Words from the judge and Lachlan’s attention turned back to the front of the room. Words she couldn’t hear, couldn’t understand for the terror seizing her body. Terror that cut all breath from her lungs.

  Out. She needed out.

  The crowd erupted around her, jeering, and she jumped.

  Escape.

  Now was the time.

  She ripped her fingers from Lachlan’s hand and tucked her head, struggling to her right along the bench, her hands cla
wing the wooden seat until she reached the man at the end. She stumbled past him—over him—pushing at the man’s shoulders as she lurched to the door.

  Her fingers slipping on the brass knob, it took far too long—seconds she didn’t have—to open the door.

  She staggered out into the daylight, slamming the door behind her, and then wobbled her way to the rear of the building, her gloved hand scraping along the rough red stone of the exterior.

  Barely around the back corner of the building and she doubled over, vomiting and only narrowly missing the skirt of the mauve dress Janice had procured for her.

  Her stomach twisted and she retched again and again, gasping for air in between heaves, trying to send breath into her lungs.

  Tears burning her eyes, the clenching in her gut eased and her look lifted, frantic, not even sure where she had stumbled to. She needed to hide. Hide until Mr. Molson was gone. Hide until there was no way he could find her. For if he did…

  Her belly coiled, sending a tremor of bile up her throat. Her eyes closed tight against the retch threatening to take her over again and she had to clutch the side of the building so the dizziness setting into her skull didn’t send her to the ground.

  No. She had to stop. She had to hide. Hide before he found her. How long would he be in there?

  She forced her eyelids open and searched around her. Stables sat behind the building. But what if his horse was in the stables? She could go down the main road winding through the village and find a shop to hide in, but most of the townsfolk were inside at the trial. Jacob had been beloved by the people in these lands, so many of them were itching for justice.

  The stables. It was her best chance. If she could find a horse and a saddle she could make it away from the town. Make it away from Mr. Molson. He couldn’t know where she was. Couldn’t find her.

  A horse. That was what she needed to do. It didn’t matter whose it was. Now. Now before he was done testifying. Before he could find her.

  Evalyn pushed off from the brick of the building and made it two steps before the dizziness spun her world and she stumbled to the side.

  Hands caught her from behind before she fell and she shrieked, sinking to her knees before she could scramble away.